


Temporary

by hellhoundsprey



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Age Difference, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Normal Life, Bottom Jack Kline, Choking, Extremely Dubious Consent, Grooming, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Implied/Referenced Incest, M/M, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Rough Sex, Sadism, Top Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-24
Updated: 2020-07-24
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:13:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25492159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellhoundsprey/pseuds/hellhoundsprey
Summary: Original prompt: Neighbor AU where jack is living with his real mom and dean is a new guy who moves into his neighborhood. Dean gets know as a strange, quiet guy with anger issues and jack notices how he’s always staring at him when’s he’s outside, it makes Jack scared because he thinks dean wants to hurt him or something, when really dean is looking at him with desire and thinking how this kid would look so good in his bed while he fucks him.
Relationships: Jack Kline/Dean Winchester
Comments: 15
Kudos: 93





	Temporary

**Author's Note:**

  * For [energist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/energist/gifts).



> Jack is 16, Dean is 40. 
> 
> I tweaked the original prompt and set it inside 02x20’s AU world. 
> 
> The scenes are not in chronological order. Time is a lie.

New feelings overcome him every day. Like single raindrops, sometimes, subtle; downpour, tsunamis at others. It’s confusing and wonderful. Terrifying. He’s got no say in these things—emotions are just that, emotions.

New worlds.

They all bear his name.

~

“Can you get up?”

Jack nods but doesn’t move. Dusk creeps in on them, somewhere, outside.

Dean sighs, annoyed.

“C’mon, your mom’s gonna be worried.”

~

Jack’s not allowed to talk to strangers. It’s a reasonable, sensible thing. A reasonable, sensible fear.

Kidnapping. Rape. Torture.

True crime documentaries. Dental samples. Severed fingers.

It’s their second move this year. Mom’s got her gun in her purse at all times.

Jack knows where the spare bullets are kept, the gun oil; just in case. Just in case, baby, it’s always good to be prepared, isn’t it?

The house is nice enough. Jack likes the floral, flimsy curtains in the kitchen. It’s a nice kitchen, too—outdated but clean. He spends the afternoon unwrapping glass, porcelain, stainless steel. That beautiful colorful mouth-blown glass bowl Mom brought home from her trip to Italy, years before Jack was born. When she was just a young girl, a college student.

Jack can hear her on the phone, two rooms over. Quiet yet insistent, sharp and hissed like she’s angry, and she probably is.

Jack is angry, too.

~

The nights are empty. He has yet to find the motivation to put up his posters, haul his books from inside the box into the built-in cupboard.

The room is bare, lifeless, anonymous.

Jack lies awake, wondering who might have lived here before them. Who inhabited this very room—another child, a happy child? Siblings, fighting over toys? A teenage girl, sobbing because of a boyfriend; a baby, just learning to walk?

Jack’s clothes sit in their semi-constant trash bag in front of the closet.

~

Dean—call me Dean.

Dean’s got an awesome car, and a brother. Is rough-looking unless he’s aware you’re looking at him (which he usually is, and you usually are). Softens, then, puts on a sly smile that makes him look like a movie star. Like in the old westerns. The pretty cowboy with the potty mouth and the fast gun.

“Is it broken?”

“What? No, hell no.”

“But you’re repairing it.”

“’S called maintenance,” educates Dean-call-me-Dean and he doesn’t look nice, no, he looks mean and testing and Jack feels inadequate, feels dumb under the swoop of those too-green eyes, the strict grind of that jaw. “What are you, an expert?”

“Sorry,” says Jack, and doesn’t dare leave the driveway.

Dean considers him from afar. From where he’s curled over the gaping hood of his beautiful car that roars so loud when you drive it, that you can hear down the entire road. And Jack feels envious, he feels jealous and guilt grips him, because what do you expect, what do you think there is for you, here?

Dean-call-me-Dean smacks his gum between the two rows of his too-white, straight teeth.

Swoops one gloved hand in a beckoning manner, maybe, and maybe there are strings curled around Jack because he feels drawn in, irrevocably.

“Come and watch, if you want.”

~

“Fuck.” Hands up Jack’s chest, Jack’s throat. “Fuck, _fuck_ …”

Dean’s not a stranger, because Dean was at that barbecue, and they shook hands. Because they’re neighbors—or, live in the same neighborhood. It’s a ten-minute walk to his house.

Dean kisses him with his eyes closed. Pushes their tongues together and that feels so so good, always—slick and velvet and Jack’s not supposed to touch or move, but Dean doesn’t reprimand him when Jack slips one hand to Dean’s flank, under his shirt, up his ribs, his chest.

Dean’s all tense. Muscle and warmth, hint of sweat.

Just growls, low and all animal, and Jack’s body moves with the force of Dean’s hands, of him yanking at and working Jack’s belt open, his jeans.

“Fuck, you little whore. You fucking slut.”

~

Laughter and clinking of glasses. Fruit juice and sausages, burnt animal fat—red velvet cake, melting in the early evening heat.

“Kelly! So glad you could make it!”

“Zoe, hi!” Mom and the woman hug, pretend to kiss each other’s cheeks. “Hi, wow, I had no idea just how many people are living here!” and the woman laughs, too-high and loud, and Mom laughs, too, nervous and thin but just as loud.

“Yeah, it’s a whole _community_! So happy to have you, I need to introduce you to literally everyone, you’re gonna LOVE us!”

“And who’s that handsome gentleman you’ve got there?” says the brightly smiling man to the woman’s side, pushing into the picture and Jack realizes they mean him, and the next time he blinks they are all looking at him.

Mom tugs him close to her side. “That’s my boy, Jack.”

“Well, nice to meet you, Jack!”

“Nice to meet you, sir. Ma’am.”

Jack shakes hands. Mom gives him a proud smile.

“You hungry, Jack? You look like you could eat.”

Mom murmurs, “Go ahead, baby, it’s fine,” and pets his back before she nudges him towards the other people.

“I—yeah. Thank you, I would like that.”

“C’mere, let’s get you a plate. Help yourself, we’ve got all the good stuff. Veggies, too, if you’re into that.”

“I’m not vegan, if that’s what you mean.”

“Lucky you,” says the guy as he slaps a huge steak onto Jack’s plate. “Enjoy it while you don’t ‘have to work on your cholesterol, sweetums’.”

Jack seats himself on one of the many benches and eats with his plate balanced on his knees. It’s a little too warm out for his jacket but he’s too nervous to take it off—he’d have to tie it around his hips or something and that looks dumb, and it’s a nice jacket, and he wants to look nice.

His eyes dart towards his mom, right in the spot where he last saw her, conversing, sipping on something colorful with a piece of pineapple impaled on a toothpick, glittery tinsel. Mom laughs and talks, politely, emptily. She looks over to him on occasion and he smiles at her when she does. Waves his loaded fork at her, and she waves back with her beautifully manicured hand. She found a new nail person. She deserves to spoil herself, Jack thinks. He’s got a beautiful mom.

“Dean—!”

“What, like they’re gonna notice,” and Jack turns to look to his right, to the men talking so pointedly hushed and one of them slipping a bottle from the table into his jacket.

Their eyes meet, then, and Jack feels about as busted as the man himself.

The man, after a moment of them just holding eye contact and not knowing what to do about it, raises his forefinger to his lips, purses them, eyebrows tilting high, while he tugs his jacket in place to cover his theft.

Jack just stares.

“You know what, I shouldn’t have talked you into this.”

“Yeah, maybe you shouldn’t have,” but the taller man pours both of them drinks into tiny glasses while the thief opens two bottles of beer. “But we’re here, so at least you got what you wanted, Sammy.”

They throw back the shots right at the table. The tall man refills the glasses and they down those, too, before they set the used glasses aside and make their way towards the many grills.

As they pass him, the thief repeats the earlier _shush_ gesture, nearly comical like Jack was a small child, and he winks at Jack before the tall man yanks at him, tells him to, “Stop it!” The thief nearly topples over, nearly spills his drink but laughs, and it hits Jack that he’s horribly drunk, must be.

Jack follows them with his eyes, chews on a new mouthful of meat and ketchup. They help themselves from the generous selection, sit down and eat, and drink, and eat. The tall one looks at his phone a couple of times, like maybe he’s waiting for a call or something, and yeah, he’s wearing a wedding ring. He runs his hand back through his long hair every once in a while. Is sweating, horribly, while the thief seems contented in his leather jacket. Jack’s wearing a varsity jacket.

Children run by, chasing each other, excited on too many sugary treats and soda. Screams and laughter, all positive but disruptive, irregular, and it’s loud, and buzzing. Constant chatter, left and right. Jack forces himself over to the table nearly bowing with the weight of the many beverages—fruit juice, soda, sparkling water, lemonade. Handwritten notes would have long soaked with condensation if they hadn’t been laminated in wise foresight. Jack picks the red lemonade.

The first sip announces _heavy_ grapefruit and he wrinkles his nose in immediate disgust. Would be rude to not finish it after he’s filled his entire cup with it already, though.

~

Jack sobs.

“What, does it hurt?”

The next hit makes him yelp, lurch forward on the table.

“Answer me.”

Jack cries, “Yes!” and gets another, and he can’t. He can’t.

Feels like he’s being torn open. Like the leather cuts into him, and maybe he’s bleeding, and he’s scared.

Dean brings the belt down over his ass again and forces his available hand down the small of Jack’s back to keep him from bolting off and away. Dean always knows what Jack’s gonna do next, always.

“Good,” hears Jack. “It’s supposed to.”

~

Dean’s arm weighs so heavy around him—thrown over his shoulders, casually, and it’s that and the warmth and the late hour that has Jack leaning in, caving in.

Has his heart beating up all the way into the roof of his mouth, and their combined body heat is a lot. Dean’s armpit is slightly damp with sweat, and he smells—great.

Cologne and beer and sweat and laundry detergent. The lingering scent of their shared dinner, and Jack’s highly aware of his own BO from all the chores he managed to finish today. Mowed the lawn, scrubbed the bathroom, fixed dinner. He’s getting better at it.

Dean squeezes him to his side, ever-so-slightly, and Jack blinks heavily at the too-loud TV in the otherwise unlit darkness of Dean’s living room.

~

“Name’s Dean. Call me Dean.”

Jack shakes a too-firm, too-rough hand.

“Winchester,” he adds, slurred around the edges but he hides that well. “Cell number eighty-six.”

“Excuse me?”

“What, like these ’urbs aren’t, like, some white power incest-run prison,” and Jack feels some eyes turning towards them at these words, and he flushes hot, and he probably shouldn’t be talking with this man. This ‘Dean’.

‘Dean’ pours more from his flask. The tall man left a while ago. Mom’s still busy ‘integrating herself into the community’.

‘Dean’ burps. “What house you in, kid?”

Jack thinks. Decides, “Twelve.”

Dean whistles. “Not bad, not bad. Right up front, why not, sure.”

“It was available. We needed a place to stay.”

“Don’t we all?”

“Are the lower numbers better?”

“Huh?”

“Are the lower house numbers better? Because the way you said it made it sound like that.”

“Maybe? I dunno, how should I know?”

Jack shrugs, helpless. The guy’s pretty drunk. “I just thought maybe you knew.”

“I mean, I’ve been living here for, what, like—ten years? Hell,” and someone close to them literally gasps at him saying that last word, “I don’t remember. So you’d think I should know these things, I guess. Truth is—” Dean pours what seems to be the last of his flask, and he looks considerably disgruntled about that fact “—I hate this place, and I hate everyone who lives here, so, frankly, good luck.”

Dean leaves on his own account not long after, but the look on everyone’s face makes it clear that they were one more curse word away from dialing nine-one-one.

Jack is left behind confused and tired, and Mom hurries over after hearing that he’s been sitting with ‘that person’.

“I’m okay,” he vows, and she looks pale around her mouth. “He was all by himself. He was pretty drunk, but he just needed someone to talk.”

Mom sighs, “Oh, baby,” and will bid the barbecue goodbye in just another minute.

~

“You still sore?”

Jack shakes his head.

Those fingers push straight down the back of his jeans, his underwear, down the cleft of his ass, and he shivers, taken by surprise.

Dean inquires, “You sure?” and Jack nods anew, gets three broad fingers stroking the nervous clutch of his asshole.

Jack tries to breathe. It’s hard, in Dean’s presence.

“Gon’ let me do it again, then? Get my big cock in here?”

Jack nods.

“Say it.”

“Yes.”

“All closed up again, aren’t you,” and maybe it’s disappointment or maybe it’s amazement because Dean looks genuinely surprised that Jack’s body won’t let him force his dry finger in without a fight. “Like nothing’s ever happened, huh? Like you want me to ruin you all over again?”

Jack babbles, “Yes?” because it hurts, because he’s confused and fucking hard. Because, yeah, he wants it, he wants that; he _wants_.

Dean retracts his hand, then, to work Jack’s pants open instead.

“Good boy, Jack,” he says, like Jack did something good.

Jack doesn’t ever truly ‘do’ anything.

~

He thinks he whimpers, because Dean says, “Shh, shh, hey, breathe,” and, “I’ve got you,” but he keeps pushing his cock deeper up Jack’s ass and it hurts, it’s too much; and he’s scared.

Scrabbles for the sheets to crawl off, away, but Dean’s got him pinned and holds him and kisses him behind his ear and rocks, shallow.

Jack whimpers. He does.

“There you go, good boy. There you go.”

Dean’s weight atop his back crushes him. His insides are stretched out too-wide, too-deep, and he can’t truly breathe around any of it.

Just shudders and gasps and Dean hums into his ear, all hot and close, and he ruts into Jack’s ass and tells him, “That’s it,” and, “Doing so good,” and that feels nice, that makes him feel a little better.

Dean helps him twist and crane his neck until they can kiss again despite the position. Dean manages to get an arm under-around Jack’s chest, cushions him like that.

Dean rocks deep and Jack groans.

“So fucking deep, isn’t it? Can you tell, huh?”

Jack nods, swallows, face all scrunched up.

“Gonna fuck you like this until you’re all soft and open for me. Gonna cream you up good and do it all over again, huh, how ’bout that? Sounds good?”

The pressure on his chest forces another noise out of Jack and he adds, “Dean,” and gets his ear kissed, his neck sucked.

Dean fucks him slow and deep. Rocks in place, mostly, and the first real draw-back burns, and Jack wants it to stop, but the push-in is kinda good, real good, oh…

Dean confides, “Can feel the bed through your fucking belly,” and Jack’s voice hitches into unknown territory for it.

The world drowns. Jack seizes to be himself—melts, and melts, and drips, under the incessant pain-pressure-oh-god-don’t-stop, the stretch and burn and lube and heat.

Dean’s cock is so fucking solid. Forces into him like Jack belongs to it, like it’s its right to punch into him over and over. Softens him up, has him submitting. Any resistance—thaws.

Hot and fat and demanding, and Jack is too-hot inside, all over.

Huffs into the crisp sheets of Dean’s bed (Dean’s, Dean’s) and lets him rub into his ass all raw, all wet, and he knows they probably shouldn’t be doing this, nothing about _any_ of this, but he’s lost all reason as to why not.

Again, “Good fucking boy,” when Jack lets him pound him for real, when he makes himself stiff-soft so Dean can snap his hips hard enough that their balls smack together. “You like that, huh? You like that?”

Jack’s all drool and no voice. Holds Dean’s hand while his throat produces love-sounds, while their bodies meet so fucking loud, so fucking wet.

Dean pulls out without warning, harsh and violently, and Jack yelps.

Doesn’t know what to do, what to say, when Dean pulls back to sit on his haunches, uses both hands to spread his ass wide and spit right into him.

Thumbs to either side of his hole and they dig in, hold him open and Jack _feels_ that—feels his body struggling to close back up and not being able to.

It’s the best-worst to get filled up again. To be pushed into, fat and steady; the low growl of Dean’s voice, the steel of his hands.

Jack gasps around absolutely nothing and everything.

~

“It’s an Impala, sixty-seven.”

“Sixty-seven.”

“My Dad’s,” adds Dean, pats the steering wheel. “Left her to me. Been takin’ care of her ever since.”

Jack nods. He has the urge to run his fingers across the smooth-looking console but ends up keeping his hands in his lap.

In the closed vicinity of the car, Dean’s beer breath is clearly noticeable.

“Beautiful, isn’t she?”

Jack nods. “You care a lot about this car.”

“You got your license yet, kiddo?” Jack shakes his head. “Eh, too bad. Maybe once you get it, I’ll let you take her ’round the block, huh?”

“Really?”

“If you ask real nice,” and there’s that smile again.

~

“What was your dad like?”

Silence, so Jack looks over. Finds Dean distant, deep in thought.

Jack blinks. “Sorry, if—”

“No, it’s, uh.” Dean wipes his hand across his face, smacks his lips. Piano-plays his fingers over Jack’s collar bone. “It’s fine, just… I don’t think of him a lot, these days.”

Jack nods. “I understand.”

“He was great. My old man, I mean.” Dean doesn’t look at Jack while he speaks. Looks somewhere else, into another time. “He was great. Military man, softball. Generally awesome.” Dean nods to himself. Flicks at Jack’s ear, and that tickles, and Dean gives a faint smile. “What about yours?”

“He, uh. Doesn’t live with us.”

“I see.”

“I’ve never really met him. So, I dunno.”

“You ever want to? Meet him, I mean?”

Jack looks at him, confused.

Dean supplies, “No?” and Jack hesitates further.

“I’m…not supposed to talk about this stuff.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I want to, but.”

Jack searches Dean’s face. Finds him calm and steady, though. Different than the therapists, different than the cops.

Jack’s face is tense.

“My dad—”

~

They have a tiny garden. Basically a patch of grass. If they stay a little longer, maybe they’ll plant some flowers. Jack doubts it’s worth the hassle.

Jack mows the lawn with the old machine he finds in the garage. It’s hot out. Better than thinking about today’s school day, though, so he takes his time. Mom won’t be home for another few hours.

He doesn’t notice Dean until Dean’s whistling through his fingers.

The sudden, loud noise startles the shit out of Jack. He turns the mower off.

“Can I help you?”

He walks over to the man who’s casually slurping from the strawed mason glass in his hand while the tiny dog on the leash in his other hand relieves itself against the Kline’s post box.

Dean smacks his obscene lips, once in comfortable hearing distance.

“You lied.”

“Excuse me?”

“This ain’t number twelve.”

“Maybe I just cut their grass for them?”

“Maybe you’re full of shit?”

More drinking, a smirk. Jack’s mouth smiles back in a helpless mirror. Hard to see anything behind the black of Dean’s sunglasses.

“Can you do mine, too?”

“Your lawn?”

“Yeah.”

“Ten bucks,” says Jack, who sinks to his knees to pet the tail-wagging dog.

Dean scoffs, far up.

“It’s a reasonable rate,” argues Jack, and lets the dog lap at his hand. “What’s her name?”

“Delta. He’s a boy though.”

“Hello, Delta.”

“He’s my mom’s,” clarifies Dean, while Jack ruffles his perfectly groomed, cream-colored fur.

“He’s hot. His tongue is hanging out.”

Dean decides, “He’ll get a sip in a minute, he’ll be okay,” and Jack strokes the dog’s face with both hands, flops his ears backwards. “You done here, or? ’Cause my lawn’s seen some better days, and I’ve got ten bucks with your name on ’em.”

Delta enters the house first, then Dean, then Jack. The dog’s collar and tags jingle with its sprint to the kitchen. Dean sighs under the delight of the running AC; he takes his cap off to hang it with his coats and jackets. The back of his tee is soaked through.

“You want some soda? Beer? Schnapps?”

“Water, thank you.”

“Wow, you’re boring.”

“I’m sixteen.”

Dean stresses, “ _Boring_ ,” and uncaps himself a bottle of beer after he’s filled a huge glass with water and ice cubes, has handed that over to Jack. “Cheers, I guess.”

“Thank you.”

They drink, equally thirsty. Delta has finished his bowl and trots off.

Dean’s kitchen is small and functional. The stove looks like it’s been licked clean, just like everything else. Nearly clinical, if it wasn’t for the warm wooden accents—that massive knife block, some DIY spatula display.

“Neat, huh? Made those myself.”

Jack nods, fascinated.

“I’m good with my hands, y’know. ’S just my back that keeps being a fucking bitch.”

“Payment is up-front.”

Dean laughs. “You’ve done this before, haven’t you,” and it’s not exactly a question, and Dean puts his beer down on the counter so he can properly dig for his wallet in the back pocket of his skin-tight jeans.

Jack receives a crumbled ten-dollar bill which he folds in half once and twice before he slips it into his pocket. He says, “Thank you,” and sets his glass down by the sink once he’s finished the last sip. “Is your mower in the garage, or?”

Dean just scoffs.

“What?”

“You’re serious.”

Jack frowns. “Yes?”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Excuse me?”

“Yeah, it’s in the garage,” and Dean sounds annoyed and amused at the same time, and Jack chooses to ignore that.

Dean’s yard is overgrown with weeds and daisies. Wildflowers and grasses, seeds long-flown over from neighboring gardens. Jack makes sure to pick up pinecones and dog toys before he starts cutting the grass.

The mower is top of the class, brand-new. Moves like butter, but even then, the yard takes a good amount of work.

The sun burns down. Jack takes a breather, wipes his dripping face with his tee. His eyes sting with the sun and his sweat. His breath comes steady and heavy. The scent of cut grass is beautifully intense.

He takes the garden in—lackluster, wild. The small tiled patio carries a modest-looking table and chairs set, where he finds Dean, sprawled on one of the chairs, sipping his beer. Or the next, probably. Watching him.

Jack sniffles, and despite Dean’s shades, he thinks they’re having eye contact.

He starts up the mower again.

~

“Ms. Jones said she saw you with that Winchester guy.”

“Yes. He came by. With his dog.” Jack shoves another piece of pizza into his mouth. “I mowed his lawn.”

“I know you just wanna be kind, baby, but I don’t think this man is good people. You know what I mean?”

Jack nods. “He curses. A lot.”

“Yes. Yeah.” Mom nods as well, glad that he understands. “And he drinks a lot, doesn’t he?”

Jack nods, chews.

“That scares me, you know? Sometimes, when people are drunk, they can become very dangerous. Or, very rude. I don’t want you to be around people like that.”

Jack, who reaches for the diet coke, explains, “Mom—Mr. Winchester wouldn’t hurt _anybody_.”

~

Jack’s shoulder bumps into a random painting and he barely even hears it crashing to the floor over his and Dean’s labored breaths, over the rush of blood in his ears.

Dean growls feral and Jack hangs on, both arms around that neck and robbed of language.

Two orgasms back to back do that to you.

He’s still got his tee on, his shirt. His shoes, his socks.

Dean’s like that, some days. When he’s been waiting on Jack the entire day, when nothing but Jack exists in his current twenty-four hours.

Jack manages to kiss him on the mouth, which doesn’t exactly stop Dean’s rut (not in the slightest). But he gets sweeter for that, more tender, uses words again—like, “Fuck,” and, “Jesus, you feel so good,” and Jack’s cock weeps for that, spent and oversensitive and caught between their sweat-damp stomachs.

Dean walks them over to the dinner table, drops Jack’s ass on top of it once he can to give his legs some rest—keeps fucking him like that, without missing a beat, and Jack’s sure that you’re not supposed to do this much anal in such a short amount of time, that it can’t be good or normal, that it shouldn’t be—feel—like this.

Like he’s empty-full and can’t think of anything else.

“Fuck, you gon’ let me come in there? Fill you up?” and even though Jack nods, Dean folds his hand around his throat and squeezes. “Say it. Fucking tell me.”

“C-come, i-in—”

The backhand is a surprise.

Jack gasps, frozen.

“C-come in, in my—m-my ass?” and Dean hits him again, and his eyes fill with tears and Dean bears down on his throat with both hands and Jack sobs, broken, choked-off; up on one elbow and all of Dean’s leverage is the grip on Jack’s throat now.

Jack’s chest ripples with his inability to draw a breath.

“Yeah, shit, just like that, just like that—”

Jack’s grabbing one of Dean’s wrists—to hold on, pull him off, something. Can’t move, doesn’t know why; one foot up against Dean’s shoulder and he’s so open like this, and it’s perfect, and he’s so hollowed out and empty and god he _needs_ —

Dean lets go just as Jack’s lungs truly start to burn and he gasps, out of control, and Dean slams into him hard, once, twice, and those hands grip him right back mid-inhale, pull him in and in and in and he feels it, feels Dean’s cock throbbing so fucking hard and violently. Chokes on nothing and ghosts his hand between his own legs, grabs at his cock to jerk himself off, follow right along.

Doesn’t take much more than a few strokes; doesn’t end up with much more than a weak dribble.

Lurches with how hard it tosses him, nevertheless. With how hard his ass milks at Dean’s cock, tries to force him out or pull him deeper; anything.

His oxygen dips low again, but Dean doesn’t let go this time.

Jack’s chest and stomach spasm, even though he tells them not to, even though he tries to be limp, not fight back, because he trusts, he _does_.

Jack’s body tosses, and it kicks, and it flails.

Air, and then none. Air, and then none.

Dean doesn’t speak. Jack doesn’t hear.

“Mmh.”

Jack’s head hurts. His mouth feels dry.

A straw. Water.

A hand, petting through his hair.

“There you go. Good boy, Jack.”

The world is black. He can’t see. “Dean?” It hurts to speak.

“You’re fine. Relax.” A hand down his chest, casually tweaking a nipple before it slides further. Tugs at his cock, once, twice, before abandoning that, too.

Jack’s chest hurts with his breath. His throat, too, as he attempts to speak, whine, something, anything, as Dean shushes him, tuts at him while he balls some kind of cloth into his mouth, ties another one around his head so he can’t spit the first one out.

“You’re fine. Let me. Hey, trust me, okay? This’ll feel real good, promise.”

He’s bound, can’t move his arms or legs. Is naked, and it sounds like they’re still inside—table, he’s on the table. Again? Still?

The wet, insistent push of Dean’s cock into his oversensitive ass has Jack howling into his gag.

Dean uses him. Ruts into him like he doesn’t care that it’s Jack, whether Jack can or wants to come again. Groans like he enjoys, though, and Jack’s dizzy. Too much. It’s too much.

Dean changes the angle—maybe gets a leg up on one of the chairs, and Jack’s gonna die. Gets his prostate punched out over and over and he’s hard again by the time Dean finishes. Is getting pulled out of, feels himself gaping open and leaking, helpless. Can’t close his legs, nothing.

He quakes with his silent, choppy sobs.

Dean pets his chest, his face.

“Shh, you’re okay. Hey, you’re okay.”

He wipes at Jack’s runny nose. Scratches into his hair.

Leans down, then, to speak into his ear.

“If you promise to be good, I’ll untie you, all right? Can you do that for me, Jack?” and Jack nods furiously, immediately. “You don’t move, okay? Let me handle this.”

So, Jack doesn’t move. Lets his legs sink slowly until Dean’s hands are there to show him what to do, until he can fold in on himself.

In the shower, Dean takes the blindfold off of him. The bright tiles and lights are blinding and Jack cringes, tries to hide. Dean showers him down with the gag still in place, with Jack’s forearms and hands still tightly tied.

It’s quiet. Neither of them speaks. Jack doesn’t want to look Dean in the eye, and Dean doesn’t seem to mind it. Towels him dry and carries him into the bedroom, bridal style, like he carried him upstairs, earlier, into the bathroom.

And while he doesn’t untie Jack further, he pulls them close together, under the covers. Hauls Jack into his arms and presses kisses to his head, his face, his knuckles. It’s bizarre. Jack’s too exhausted to be scared, though. The soft touches feel so good, so soothing. The sheets are cool and silky against their clean, heated skin.

Jack curls around Dean as best as he can.

~

“Why don’t you tell us a little about yourself—” She checks the piece of paper. “—Jack?”

“Uhm. My name’s Jack Kline. I moved here from X, with my mom.” Jack looks back at the teacher, who gives him an encouraging nod. “I like, uhm. Star Wars?”

“Thank you, Jack. You can sit down now.”

Jack nods. “Thank you.”

He sits in the empty spot in the front row. He likes the front row. It’s easy to listen from here and he has clear sight of the door.

~

“You missed a spot.”

Jack looks up and over to the couch.

Dean’s eyes are right on him. He’s sprawled out all the way and his socked feet are stacked on one of the armrests of the couch.

Dean takes another long sip of his current beer as he gestures.

“No slackin’ around, you hear?”

Chores have never impressed Jack. What other choice would he have had? Mom would always ask so nicely, and she’d always be so tired after work, before work. Jack likes a clean house, too, after all.

Jack hauls another box of empty bottles into the garage. The heap for recycling is growing and growing, but Dean insists he’ll get to it this weekend, just put it with the others, it’s fine.

For someone with a bad back, Dean has an impressive home gym situation in his basement. Punching bag, weights. Jack’s pretty sure someone with a bad back shouldn’t be lifting weights.

Jack scrubs floors and he wipes glass. Bleach and toothbrushes and microfiber rags. He sweeps floors and the driveway and the patio and while the TV runs, he still has that feeling of being watched, but he doesn’t want to check. Doesn’t want to be caught questioning.

He wouldn’t need to clean this intensely, he thinks. Dean’s place is, for the most part, spick-and-span. Tidy, no clutter. He’s got his books and movies and CDs and records and tapes in alphabetical order, lined up like soldiers in practical shelves. No framed pictures; one of him and Sam, as kids, upstairs, one of his mom and him on his nightstand (but Dean tells him to put it with the one of him and Sam, into the opposite corner of his bedroom). Jack wipes away fingerprints that aren’t even there.

Dean inspects his work once he’s done. Always finds something, as little as it may be, and has Jack correct it in front of him until he’s satisfied.

“You’re good,” he decides though, in the end. Feeds Jack crustless sandwiches and ice water and pats himself down for his wallet to peel out the twenty bucks he’d offered. “Let’s do this regularly, huh?”

~

“Baby! Oh my word, Jack, baby, what happened?!”

Mom’s hands fly to his face and he flinches, understandably. But she’s hysterical, can’t understand that she’s hurting him.

“Jack, talk to me, _talk to me_ , what HAPPENED?!”

“Mom, stop freaking OUT!”

Kelly’s eyes go dinner plate wide. They flood with tears so quick Jack feels whiplashed, and he didn’t notice they went to the floor until he gets to his knees to pull her in, hold her as she sobs.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Mom, it’s okay. It’s okay. Delta—he got scared, and, and I had to chase him. He got stuck in the crawlspace under the house, but I got him, Mom. He’s okay. I got some scratches but Dean said not to worry, there was no rust of anything, so I won’t get blood poisoning or anything. Mom, please stop crying, I’m so sorry, please stop crying, Mom…”

Mom’s the first to fall asleep, curled up against him on the sofa. Jack follows her to the sight of far-away jungles on the TV—of snakes and spiders, and green, green, green.

He dreams of that snake again, that old, old dream. Of that face, and it’s clearer this time, clearer than it ever was, but he still doesn’t recognize it. Can’t. (Faces you see in dreams are bits and pieces of real life that your brain remembers but it’s secret, useless memory, because you don’t have access, you don’t need to remember these things _but the pictures are still there_.)

Jack wakes with a startle, bathed in cold sweat. His mother stirs, confused, dazed; “Are you okay?” and, “What’s happening, Jack?” and Jack tells her, “Just a dream,” and she combs his soaked her back over his head, out of his face, and he hasn’t caught his breath yet.

~

Jack waters Dean’s mom’s flowers. Delta and Beta have given up on chasing the water stream and are now dozing in the little dog hammock by the patio.

Everything in these houses is duplicated, yet so very different. Miniscule things, details. Little break-outs from the copy-paste. Glimpses of personality.

Dean clicks his tongue, so Jack turns to look over at him.

“C’mere for a second.”

Jack drops the hose by one of the fruit trees before he makes his short way over to Dean. To the little iron table with the elegant pattern, the huge jug of Mrs. Winchester’s homemade lemonade (it’s store-bought, which is no secret, but Jack accepts that they call it what they call it).

Dean fixes him over the rim of his sunglasses.

“Do you believe in God, Jack?”

“Yes. Of course.”

Jack waits patiently for Dean to top off his glass for him.

The ice cubes sing against glass, against each other. The muscles in Dean’s arm visibly shift under his skin as he moves.

“Of course you do,” murmurs Dean. “Of course you do.”

“Do _you_ believe in Him, Dean?”

Dean makes a noncommittal noise as he produces his flask from who knows where. He unscrews the lid and pours a generous amount into his own glass.

“Tell me, Catholic boy: what’s worse—not believing, period, or believing he exists, but doesn’t give a crap?”

Jack contemplates.

Dean gives him a look.

“You’re seriously thinking on that, aren’t you?”

“It’s an intriguing question.”

“Kid, you are a fucking piece of work. Here.” Dean pours a healthy swig from his flask into Jack’s already-full glass. “I’ve decided: God is dead and we’re on our own, so get that fucking stick outta your ass and start _living_ a little.”

Jack argues, “I’m not allowed,” but does curl his hand around the glass, does raise it to his face, under the set stone of Dean’s commanding expression.

“You’re hereby allowed.”

Jack sniffs. Wrinkles his nose.

“What are you, some little girl?”

Jack nips at it. Ponders.

Informs, “I don’t like this.”

“Too bad. Drink up.”

“This isn’t healthy. I’m not supposed to—”

“I said to _drink up_ , Jack.”

Jack frowns—at Dean, at the glass. The chemical sugary yellow, the fading flower print on the glass.

Jack sets the glass to his mouth and drinks. Even though it tastes horrible. Even though the ice-cold drink hurts his stomach, even though he breaks a sweat from how much he doesn’t want to do what he does.

He sets the glass down once he’s finished. Only ice remains.

Dean gives him an unimpressed look. Did his hair today, put on a decent shirt.

“Now, was that so hard?”

Jack shakes his head, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He belches and he hates the taste that reaches back into his mouth, and he cringes, unhappy.

“You gonna puke?”

Jack shakes his head again, stubborn.

“Do it in the grass if you must,” and that’s all wisdom Dean’s got available for him.

The booze hits him mean, and it hits him quick. Jack doesn’t understand, at first; takes some time to remember what caused him to feel like this, and it’s funny to him, then.

He feels loose and fun. Fools around with the dogs on the lawn until Dean tells him to cut it out, he’s ruining his jeans, and, yeah, fuck, grass stains. Jack laughs at himself while Dean helps him get his stained pants off. It’s more of a struggle than he’d thought.

Jack keeps playing with the dogs in his boxers, out in the living room, while Dean curses and scrubs in the bathroom.

Jack hollers, “I’m sorry,” and Dean counters more vulgarities, so Jack leaves him to his work and nearly hits the TV with the rubber ball he’s throwing for the dogs.

The stains are still visible, but Dean did his best.

Jack tells him, “Thank you,” and Dean only grunts, “Lift your legs, goddammit.” It’s a joint effort to get his jeans back on.

The dogs are exhausted before Jack is. Everyone’s calmed down. The rug in Mary’s living room is truly too comfortable.

“You ever kissed someone?”

Jack stares, and then he laughs. “Uh— _no_? Gross!”

“‘Gross’? What are you, five?”

“Ffffive and a half,” chortles Jack. “Why, did _you_ ever kiss someone?”

“Been kissing people before your mom even started bleeding from her vagina.”

“Eww!”

“Is it some kind of church thing?”

“Whu?”

“The no kissing.” Smirk. “Or are you just shy?”

Jack informs, “I’m NOT shy,” and brushes Delta’s ears back over his head. “I can do what I want. I just don’t _wanna_ kiss people. I’m sixteen,” he reminds, wisely, and Dean just looks at him with that dumb face of his. All handsome and surreal. “I prolly shouldn’t wanna kiss people.”

“You ever touch yourself?”

“What, like my dick?”

“Yeah, your dick.”

Jack glares at him. “Are you stupid? Why are you asking me all this? You never wanna know stuff about me.”

Delta gladly lets Jack push him to his side to get some belly rubs.

“Don’t be mad, I’m just messing with you.”

“I’m not MAD! You haven’t SEEN me mad!” and he’s truly angry now, somehow, and he looks down at Dean because he’s sitting and Dean’s lying down, propped up on his arm like some catalogue girl. Who’s petting Delta’s head, and just looks—expectant.

Observing. Cataloguing.

Jack grinds his teeth.

“I should go. I’m _leaving_.”

And he’s up, and that sucks. Because, shit, walking ain’t that easy right now.

Jack collides with the doorframe first, with Dean later.

“No, let me—”

“Stop it, you’re gonna hurt yourself—”

“I said NO!” and he manages to shove Dean away, somehow, miraculously. Stares at him, bewildered. Dean’s got his hands up in defeat, takes a few steps backwards.

“Okay—okay. You wanna head home like that? Sure. Bet Mommy’s gonna be real delighted.”

“She’s not home until, like, nine.” Jack huffs, close to tears now, suddenly. Tired. He’s heavy. He hates being drunk. This sucks. Everything sucks.

“Okay, how ’bout this—you take a nap, sleep it off.”

“This is all your fault.”

“Yeah, ’s why I’m helping you out here, man. C’mon, stop being such a bitch, lemme help you.”

“You’re not helping,” grunts Jack. The doorframe feels nice and cool against his forehead. “You’re the worst.”

“You don’t mean that.”

Jack lies, “I do,” and Dean’s hands are warm on his shoulders, they are.

~

The room is only spinning a little anymore once he wakes.

He blinks, painedly. The simple ceiling light. Blackout-curtains.

Dean’s bed. Dean’s nightstand.

Jack flips himself over. Knuckles at his eyes. He can hear the TV running, downstairs.

It’s cozy under the blanket. He’s still in his clothes (minus his shoes, his socks). A glass of water and an Aspirin sit on the nightstand, waiting. Jack takes both.

Downstairs, Dean has already finished his dinner, is sprawled on his couch. Channel-surfing. “Eyyy, sleeping beauty. How do you feel?”

Jack makes a face, rubs at his eye again.

Dean smiles at him all genuinely. “First time sucks, doesn’t it?”

~

“Take me out, c’mon.”

Jack gives a hesitant look up to Dean’s eyes. Finds them dark, encouraging, smiling. Jack keeps his hand cupped over the bulge of Dean’s jeans-clad dick.

Dean promises, “It ain’t gonna bite.”

So Jack unzips that fly. Fingers into the slit, finds bare skin immediately. A surge of electricity, of shock.

Dean keeps petting his head. Tucks loose strands of hair behind his ears just to have them flop back free; too short.

“There you go.”

Jack tugs it free entirely. Not even hard all the way, so heavy already. Cut, like Jack’s, but so fundamentally different—to touch someone else’s.

Jack swallows. Has him by the base, unsure.

“You wanna play with it a little? Like you do it with yourself?”

Jack gives a tentative nod, barely a jerk of his head. Looks for approval in Dean’s face and gets it, easily.

He gives a careful stroke along the velvet length of Dean’s cock. Feels the skin shifting, the head leaving a damp impression in his palm as he slides over that, too.

Dean prompts, “C’mere,” and helps tugging him closer, up against his chest. Kisses him all sweet, and Jack thinks: a distraction.

“Is, uhm, this okay?”

Dean uh-hums, all honey.

Jack twists his hand around and feels Dean shifting his hips out for more.

Watches how Dean’s lashes flutter, how his features melt. Kisses him on his almost-slack mouth and can’t take his eyes off the man, no way.

He fills out entirely in Jack’s hand. His fingers barely manage to touch. Jack’s fascinated, humiliated.

He squeezes his hand harder, moves it faster—steady, attention strict on Dean’s reaction. Dean makes little noises. Sighs, as he keeps running his hand over Jack’s neck, Jack’s back.

Murmurs, “Making me feel so good, baby,” and Jack’s stupid heart thuds all proud.

He wants that, he does. All of it.

~

It’s a wild fantasy that he’s got Dean Winchester to himself, but it’s kinda true: after all, Dean doesn’t go out except for groceries, except for seeing his mom. Sam comes over every blue moon or so, insists Dean, but Jack hasn’t seen him since the barbecue.

“Fucking henpecked idiot,” Dean would say, dismissive, like he couldn’t care less about his little brother. Like he means the insult, like it’s true.

But _Jack_ is _welcome_. _Jack_ gets his own little assortment of sodas in the fridge, gets told where the spare key is, just in case. Gets told the security code to Mary’s house, too (with her enthusiastic consent), because, “If I’m not home, I’m prolly over there,” so just come and see him, let yourself in.

Mary’s a lovely woman, even if she’s a little odd, a little strict. Stricter than Mom in some ways, minus the entire religious schmuck.

“You’re a great kid, Jack,” she’d say, grateful for his help. Grateful that Jack’s not like other kids these days, says _thank you_ and _ma’am_ and _please_. Likes that Jack has proper manners, that he knows how to be kind and polite when he’s at someone else’s place.

“Oh, I think he’s out grabbing groceries,” she’d say. “Why don’t you come in, wait up? You want some tea, coffee?”

“Tea would be great, thank you, Mrs. Winchester.”

“It’s _Mary_ ,” she’d say, with an embarrassed smile, for the umpteenth time.

Delta and Beta are exploring the backyard, do their business. Jack sets the table while Mary takes care of their drinks. They sip in the shadows of the nearby tree, sheltered from the merciless afternoon sun.

“You remind me of my boys, y’know; when they were your age,” says Mary, dreamy with her chin in her hand, elbow on the table. Her eyes are bright and young despite her age. She’s got her fading-blonde, long hair up in a messy ponytail, wears one of those beautiful timeless summer dresses with frilly, thin shoulder straps. “Both of them. It’s weird.”

“In what way?”

“Hm.” She thinks, remembers, smiles. “You’re handsome like my Dean used to be. But you’re also such a good kid, like Sam. It’s like God took the best of both worlds and created you.”

Jack smiles, flustered. “Are there any photographs?”

“Oh, he will kill us if I…”

Mary trails off. Looks at Jack, wide-eyed. Conspiracy.

“I promise not to tell him,” vows Jack, and so Mary hurries to go grab the albums.

There are several, titled SAM and DEAN and FAMILY and M+J. Sam has two, Dean has one.

“With Sammy’s college stuff, y’know, I just had way more material,” explains Mary without being prompted to, hauls the DEAN one from the pile and opens it. Jack scoots closer. “Dean got so camera shy at some point, it’s such a shame.”

A tiny, tiny baby. It grows to a toddler, holds another tiny baby. Kindergarten-age, rain boots, tooth gaps.

“He was the absolute sweetest,” recounts Mary, quietly, in-love. “He loved his brother so much. Look how adorable, oh gosh.” Mary points at the one Jack’s already consumed by—cookie baking, a baby in Dean’s little lap to which he feeds raw dough.

“They were inseparable,” explains Mary, and turns yet another page.

~

Jack comes to with a gasp, a stir.

Not much room to move—solid wall in his back, warm; Dean.

“Dean…?”

Dean grinds them deep together, kisses behind Jack’s ear. Has him hugged tight, close, imperatively.

Sleep-murmurs, “Go back to sleep, baby,” and Jack hums, swallows.

Dean finishes inside of him and leaves to take a piss, after. Crawls back into bed, the big spoon to Jack’s curled-up body.

It’s a new moon. The darkness seems impenetrable, eternal.

Dean kisses the back of Jack’s neck like a lullaby. Pets his bare shoulder, lets Jack interlace their fingers.

“Why aren’t you sleepin’, hm?” barely-there, halfway gone.

“Do you think there’s a heaven, Dean? And a hell?”

“Fuck, I hope not.” More kisses, stubble-burn. “Go back to sleep now, c’mon.”

“I think there is,” murmurs Jack, and Dean’s breathing has soon evened out.

~

Jack slips out from underneath Dean’s arm, eventually.

The guy has been snoring for one and a half episode of X now, and Jack should get ready to head home.

He makes sure Dean lies comfortably, doesn’t twist his neck or anything. It’s the least Jack can do.

Dean’s head droops to the side as he moves in his sleep. Like he’s hiding his face in the cushions. His hair is a lost cause, has been all day.

Jack turns the TV off, pulls a blanket over Dean’s still-clothed body. He’ll probably sweat horribly at some point but until then, at least he won’t be cold.

Jack lingers without much reason. Just Dean, sleeping. Peacefully. Beautifully.

He looks both younger and older like that. Like life isn’t so bad after all. Or, maybe, he’s given up.

Jack raises his eyes to the VHS player’s display. Eight forty.

The office upstairs sits silently, patiently. Meticulous here, too; naturally. Papers. Documents. Insurances. Jack pulls out what caught his eye earlier when he was dusting this place—a high school yearbook, nineteen-ninety-five. Jack flips it open where he stands. Even though Dean is deeply gone, there is no reason to risk anything.

Colorful scrapbooking, smiling faces, outdated clothes. Everything looks extra corny, extra gritty. No phones to be seen anywhere.

The Dean in the picture stares back at you with an amount of swagger even Jack could identify as sarcasm, now. And yet, in this picture, it almost seems…genuine.

Dean’s quote sounds like something grabbed right out of some cheesy western, and it probably is.

Bangs. Dean looked good with bangs.

Jack places the book where he got it, and he pulls out the next.

Same high school, same year, different class.

Doesn’t make much sense until a faintly familiar face smiles back at Jack, and, yes, of course. Sam.

So different. Younger by a bunch, entirely different complexion—dark hair, no freckles. Nothing much of this kid seems to have lasted for the man Jack recalls as mostly…tall, and lean. Then again, Jack hadn’t paid much attention.

How it must have been, to have had a brother like Dean.

Had Sam been proud? Had he wished to be more like Dean?

However it was, it’s not like that anymore. Sam is a ghost now. Ever-present, and yet…missing.

Big-shot, Dean had said. Best lawyer in the entire state, ask anyone. If you ever get in trouble, we’ll set you up, no worries…

In Mary’s living room, there are pictures of two small children; Christmas cards with a toddler and a newborn. Sam looks happy in those pictures.

Jack attempts to push the yearbook back into place, but he meets resistance. Something got stuck, keeps him from reassembling the scene. He reaches up and behind the books—and it’s dusty here, since Dean won’t let him move anything, doesn’t matter, I never use any of this anyway.

A cardboard box. Jack turns it in his hands. There is no note, no nothing. He lifts its lid to see inside.

Loose photos, a couple of them. Polaroids? It’s dark and the box is deep, so Jack pulls one out to hold in front of his face.

Jack looks at the photo for a while. A moment, maybe, or longer.

With the first still between his fingers, he dives back in for another. He looks at that one, too.

His eyes flicker over to the desk. He could put the box down, empty it out. He ends up not doing any of that.

The photos go back into the box, and the box finds its spot back behind the books. Jack wipes at dusty spots he created, that he left, and out of all things, out of all the times, he feels nervous, now. Guilty, somehow, but he can’t put his finger on as to—why.

The world is very suddenly very small.

It zooms in, and he can hear—the air.

The house. The street outside, and the low electrical hum of the many appliances.

The motor in Dean’s fridge, sputtering alive and on, on, on.

Jack takes a most careful breath, and the thought of Dean waking up seems unbearable.

~

Jack knows it’s him. He just knows.

Two or three words, and he just knows.

Makes it outside, finally, and, yeah. Yeah.

“Hey, champ.”

Jack pants, “Dean,” confused and proud and too-much at once. He’s by the Impala in what might be too little time, might seem needy, childish. “Dean, what are you doing here?”

“You always ride that dirty ol’ school bus, I thought you’d like to be picked up by something more—” Dean pats the outside of the car door from where he’s still in the driver’s seat, windows rolled down all the way “—classy. For a change.”

Jack has a slight idea of how big his smile is right now, and it embarrasses him even more. “Dean, that—”

“Listen, you can say my name as many times as you like from inside this car, because, actually, I think this is a no-parking zone.” Someone behind them pulls up and begins to honk excessively. “See what I mean? C’mon, get in.”

Jack’s already flinging his backpack into the backseat. “Where are we going?”

“Well, where do _you_ wanna go?” and Dean’s already starting the engine, already lets her roar loudly, and they’re off and away before anyone can wrap their head around why the oddball kid deserves to get this kinda special treatment.

They get burgers, because Jack wants to get burgers.

They eat them out by the nearby baseball field. Dean insists that while he trusts Jack with not spilling food all over himself like a toddler, that doesn’t mean Jack might not still, in fact, spill food all over himself like a toddler.

Jack’s got a triple cheese with extra sauce and is relieved Dean was in the mood for chili cheese fries as well.

He can’t even chew right he’s grinning so wildly.

“This is awesome!”

“Told you, best burgers in town.”

“No, I mean—yes, of course, but— _all_ of this!” Jack takes another bite and only dribbles a little bit of sauce over his hand. “Mom never lets me have red meat!”

“Yeah, that’s what dads are for,” and coming from Dean, it doesn’t sting. Nothing does. “For the fun stuff. The guy stuff.”

“Can we go somewhere else, after this?”

“Why, where you wanna go?”

Dean speaks around his own mouthful (extra fried onion). Someone hit the ball and the noise echoes all the way over to them. The cheers, too.

When they talk about being a kid in a candy store, this must be what they mean. All these possibilities. Euphoria successfully glosses over the very short, very sharp stab of _what are you doing? you shouldn’t be here, you shouldn’t be doing this_. Jack licks his fingers clean.

“I dunno. Just drive for a bit? Is there, like, a park? A lake?”

“You wanna go to a _lake_?”

“Yes, why not? Do you know how to fish?”

“Do _you_?”

“I don’t,” admits Jack, halfway down his cup of soda (not diet, not zero), “but you can teach me?”

Dean laughs. “Since—when do you wanna become a fisherman?”

“I dunno, but it sounds fun, doesn’t it? We could go for a hike, but I don’t have my hiking boots with me, so, fishing would be best.”

“Boy, your logic is something else,” chuckles Dean, and they finish the fries in excellent teamwork.

They end up just driving up the highway since Dean’s fishing supplies are stored in his garage. Jack thinks that, if he ever has a car, he’ll always keep the important things in it. Why not use the space if you have it?

Jack is allowed to look through Dean’s tape collection, see if he likes to put on anything. Jack squints at fading names behind dusty plastic casing. Nothing seems familiar. He’s never touched a cassette in his life, and for whatever kind reason, Dean doesn’t mock him for it; just tells him how to set it into the player without damaging anything, no sarcasm or nothing. Jack picks Black Sabbath.

The world flies by in a flurry of sunshine, of asphalt and other cars. Trees and the mountains, seemingly one reach away. Jack lets the wind whip his hair into his face, keeps his arm by the window to feel the sun on his forearm.

Dean pulls them off the street and up a rocky path. A lookout, complete with a coin-operated binocular. Jack finds a quarter somewhere deep in the pockets of his jeans and puts it to good use.

It’s beautiful out here. “How do you know this spot?”

“Used to come here a lot, back in the day. Sammy, too.” Hiss and plop of a bottle of beer opening, somewhere behind Jack’s back. “Good thinkin’ spot.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“You like it?”

The viewfinder fades into black with a full _cloink_ of Jack’s coin hitting the seemingly empty bottom of the machine. Jack turns around to beam his, “Yes! Thank you for showing me.”

Dean smiles, raises his beer in a toast. “You’re welcome, kid.”

Jack gives him time to finish his bottle. He explores the small, bland place; dried grass and pinecones. An old bottle cap—he picks that one up to store in his pocket, dispose of it correctly once they’re back in civilization. He finds another. And another.

“What’re you doing?”

“There’s a lot of litter.” Jack frowns, eyes strict on the ground, one hand picking and the other holding. “It’s not very nice. This place deserves better.”

A dismissive noise from Dean’s direction. “Don’t touch that, it’s nasty.”

Jack’s ‘loot’ ends up ballooning out his jacket. He holds it dutifully, careful not to drop any. Dean’s disgruntled enough that Jack had to touch the seatbelt.

As the Impala carries them home across the endless road, the bottle caps jingle steadily, quietly, like insects.

~

“It—it’s dirty…”

“It’s really not.”

Jack feels both his stomach and balls clenching at the next drag of Dean’s tongue.

Jack’s fingers curl harder into Dean’s hair.

“W-wait. Wait.”

“We can get you into the shower first? If it bothers you that much.” Dean gives an airy kiss to Jack’s balls, smiles like a summer day. “Ain’t bothering me, though.”

Shower. Shower it is.

Kissing Dean feels like drowning. Like losing himself.

“Get your leg up here. Yeah, like that.”

Dean slips a finger into him and Jack gasps. Pulls his arms tighter around Dean’s neck.

Dean wants to know, “Does this hurt?” and Jack, surprised himself, shakes his head for him.

A fond smile.

“See? Told you.”

The warm water helps. The fact that Dean can keep kissing him, standing up as they are. It feels nice. Feels relaxing and warm and possible.

Dean hooks a second finger into him, and that’s…different.

Jack doesn’t say anything. Holds on, patiently, and feels himself flashing a little hotter when Dean pulls back to look at him right.

They’re both naked, but it’s different when Dean looks at you like that. At nobody but you, and you feel…seen. Not just physically.

“It’s really not that dirty,” soothes Dean with his fingers pumping, exploring, and Jack struggles to swallow.

They don’t make it out of the bathroom for a while. To the towels, yes, but one thing leads to another and Jack’s bent over the rim of the tub, and there’s no excuse now that he still feels this humiliated.

Shivers and burns for every stroke of Dean’s tongue, every scratch of his stubble with his face buried in his ass like it is. The hungry, pleased little noises, like this is good, like he truly enjoys doing this. And it _does_ feel good. Too good.

Eventually, Dean guides Jack to put his hand on his own dick. Keeps his hand blanketing Jack’s, like they’re doing this together; slow, so so slow, and Jack’s breath hitches different, because, wow.

This is so good.

Dean keeps French-kissing his asshole through Jack’s orgasm, and then some.

Asks, “You liked that?” and Jack is too empty, too high up.

~

“Thought I’d find you here.”

“You were out,” apologizes Jack.

Mary supplies, “There’s some coffee left in the kitchen, if you want any,” and Dean takes her up on the offer before he joins them on the patio.

Dean blows on his piping hot drink. The cup reads BEST MOM.

“Did you get everything?”

“A-yup.”

“Oh, what are you guys up to?”

Jack explains, “We will redo the fence,” and Mary makes an impressed face. “Another plank fell off this weekend, so we really gotta do something about it.”

“That’s a lot of work,” warns Mary.

“We’re aware, Mom. It’s fine.”

“Don’t you have that test coming up, Jack?” Concerned eyes for Jack, a side-glare to her son. “Don’t you think that you should be studying instead?”

“It’s fine, ma’am.”

“I mean, don’t get me wrong, but you have been spending an awful lot of time with us, lately. I’m just worried. School is important, too, you know?”

Dean tells her, louder, “He says he’s _fine_ , Mom,” and Jack holds his half-empty cup a little tighter.

Mary takes him aside, later, in the kitchen, while Dean’s using the restroom.

“He can be a lot,” she apologizes, one hand cupped over Jack’s shoulder. “But he’ll survive a firm ‘no’ every once in a while.”

Jack nods.

“Don’t let him bully you, okay?” and she smiles around the words, hopefully, carefully, and so Jack smiles back, of course.

“Yes. Of course not.”

This town has a wonderous effect. On everyone, it seems.

There is no other explanation as to why Mom’s less concerned, seems to be less…worried. A second time, a second weekend that she tells him, “You’ll call me if anything happens, okay? Call the cops first, and then you call me, okay, Jack?”

Jack nods, her hands in his face, holding on. She kisses him on the lips, on the nose, the forehead.

“It’ll be fine, Mom. You can go.”

“You’re still my baby; I can’t help it.”

“I’ll keep my phone with me. You can text or call whenever you want.” (She didn’t do it much last time, and only during the first couple of hours, so Jack has high hopes.) “It’s fine, Mom.”

Kelly strokes his hair. Smiles, full of hope. For what, Jack can’t imagine.

It’s different when he can spend the night at Dean’s. Sleepovers never happened, just like friends never happened, so this is all new. Wonderful, too.

Staying up late. Snacks at oddest hours of the night.

The TV runs constantly. Background-noise, distraction.

Jack’s whine gets lost in Dean’s palm.

“You’re so fucking tiny, Jesus fucking _Christ_ —!”

Jack’s a different kind of exhausted around ten, eleven PM. Boneless, floating.

Dean’s restless; a nocturnal animal. Tells him, “C’mon,” and, “get your feet on my shoulders, c’mon.”

Dean gets what he wants, even though he has to do all the work himself. He never minds.

~

John Winchester looks back at you from many-a frame in Mary Winchester’s (born a Campbell) home. From next to his wife, from next to a bat. He wears a smile that isn’t one, and he wears it with confidence.

With Dean on one arm, Sam’s small hand dangles from his available hand.

~

When you hear a name often enough, it takes up a life of its own.

It draws pictures and it tells tales.

It grows a face. A voice.

Even though the nightmares grow clearer, they frighten him less and less. Are less of a threat, and maybe that’s just the blessing of growing out of childhood. Out of powerlessness.

Once he’s eighteen, maybe, and can decide these things on his own, he’d like to meet him. Could set up a court date, maybe, have someone supervise it, just to be safe. Maybe.

And it’s sad to think like this; sad that he has to—and there’s also shame, of course there is. After everything. After all these years.

There’s a hole, deep inside of Jack. And every sentence, every word people tell him about his father, they all end up inside of it.

Thrown, spat, trickled, dropped.

There’s a fear inside of Jack, and it is that every single soul on earth knows more about his father than he does himself (and it’s true, it’s true, it’s true).

~

“What’s it like to have a brother?”

“Hm.” Dean thumbs at Jack’s chin. The raw corner of his mouth. Dean decides for, “Exhausting,” and rolls atop of a chortling Jack.

Jack gets his cheek kissed, gets all air squeezed out of him by Dean’s weight. Gets his leg around Dean’s waist, hugs him back. The sun’s still out to play.

“You gotta share all your shit.”

Jack hums like he understands (but mainly for the grind of dick against dick, Dean’s mouth on his own).

“And they’re small, so you gotta watch out for ’em.”

Dean’s teeth sink into Jack’s bottom lip for a sharp moment. Before they drift down, along his throat. He feels Dean inhaling in the crook of his neck, feels that sigh. Lets him thread his arm between them, wrestle two fingers back up into the sore heat of his asshole. It hurts, but Jack decides that he can take it.

“But they’re adorable, so you put up with all that bull,” murmurs Dean, eye to eye again and dreaming. “Somehow, you still love ’em.”

“So, like you and me,” wonders Jack, and Dean’s mouth splits wide, and he smiles, and he hides his face back into Jack’s neck.

“Yeah. Yeah, like you an’ me, Jack.”


End file.
